Of Flesh and Bone
by Caleigho Meer
Summary: The scars screamed the story to the world, he knew.DISCONTINUED.
1. Chapter 1

A pending one shot on how the Joker came to be...

Mutilated...

Shaking fingers ghosted over the wreckage left behind . He winced, slammed his eyes shut in tearful denial when

he felt the raised lines of strange marks that were not there before, gliding viciously over his mouth and cheeks. He tensed as the

vicious memory of a silver knife and red blood washed over him, took him down to where the dark things were. So much history

written on flesh. So much brutality worn like a badge of honor . He stared for a long, disbelieving moment at the carved out arc of his

cheeks, the splintered skin, now held together by the stitches. The shattered state of his mind, or the forced acceptance of his mutilation

was not so easily done.

_Why?! _ Sickened by the sight of his own face, he wrenched away, shoved palms over the scars. He shuddered when he felt their presence

anew, raised, worm-shaped monstrosities burrowing under his cheeks. Unclean things that he had to bear.

People may lie, but mirrors could not. Something inside him broke that dark moment, fragmented as neatly as the shards when he shoved a fist

throught the glass, and watched with glee the mirror cascade to the floor in so many pieces. He grinned at the mutilated versions of himself.

Somehow seeing what was left of him was easier to digest when it was in shattered shards of the floor. He said nothing to the aid who had

come at the sound of the breaking glass, only gave her a nod, and a smile. She stared at him, wide-eyed, and looked nearly ready to either

bolt or piss herself as he chuckled. It was an ugly, eerie sound as he hunched over the glimmering pool of silver around him, tilted his head to the

left, considering. He heard the aid's shaking breath, as she stood, tormented in the doorway. "Why so _serious?"_ He hissed, rising.

"Never seen a _freak_ before?" She faltered in the attempt of glib, hollow comfort. "Sir? They can reconstruct things like that. You might-"

He bared his teeth back, and pulled the mouth into a dark scowl, his eyes brewing over with anguish. "Will you look at yourself? Open your eyes,

really wide, alright? A _knife_ did _this._" He almost spat as he jabbed a finger at his cheek. Idly tapping the scar, he shrugged, "I needed a new

look. What do you think?" The question was mocking, and she paled, saying nothing, only scooping up the broom and the dust pan to sweep

away the glass. His face was still impassive as she gave him a panicked glance and fled.

He winced with a grunt as the white ache of pain whiplashed over the violated muscles that could no longer twist his lips into a frown.

The stitches throbbed in warning at the strain. _A mask,_ he thought bitterly. _A mask of flesh that shows the world how hideous it can be. A mask I can _

_never take off. _

Vaguely, he remembered the tortured moments of the attack, the random, senselessness of the whole thing. Three fierce young men, with

nothing to lose but time and a snarl, as they slank out of the bright arc of the streetlight while she cowered in terror against his side. The

throbbing whine of panic as his muscles tensed and his fear sent surging adrenaline, propelled by the sound of her cry and the thug's touch.

It was a moment of lightening, as the metal blade glinted against his throat, and she scrambled to safety. The storm roiling in his gut was almost

too much to hold back when he felt the metal caress his throat and linger. His dark eyes rose to meet the blade, and he trembled, fought the urge

to crumble to his knees and beg. There was no way he could fall, anyway. The other two were holding him upright, his arms rigidly jerked upward against

his spine, to the point of a bone nearly snapping. There was only blinding pain, white heat as they cut his mouth along the jaw, severing his cheeks,

hot, scarlet blood gurgling out from his lips as the other cheek was hacked away, and he was flung down into the dark red of his own blood.

He felt the concrete scrape against his forehead, bright stars glittering down on his suffering like more blades. Pain that grew teeth and consumed

him alive. Darkness that swallowed him alive. Corruption waiting to consume, and hatred churning in his gut as he closed his eyes.

_Smile and the world smiles with you._ The eerie words were sung almost in a hymn like prophesy from the music that was pumped out of the

radio somewhere out in the darkness of the hospital hallways that surrounded him. He was laying prone on the gurney, staring in disbelief at

her anguish as she nibbled on her lips and glanced awkwardly at the clock, before her eyes swept over his face, then away. Cringing, he

bit back the questions. He knew it was coming, bowed his head in acceptance, steeled what was left of his shattered nerves to not

break down completely.

_Cry and you cry alone..._

His name was softly breathed._.._ Her last kiss held the promise of salvation while he lay literally in pieces on that lonely gurney , and

then damned him with the next words...

_I'm so sorry, but I can't bear to see you like this...I know, it's selfish, it's shallow, it's cruel, but it's the truth, and I...I'm leaving._

Bright words from her searing eyes. Brighter tears had spilled from his own as he wailed like a dying animal and curled up

in the sheets. He flinched when the stitches around his lips stretched raw and angry at the reminder of the violation. His heart broke

when he realized that he could no longer even kiss her. And something in him died when she shuddered with revulsion at his attempt.

It was gut-wrenching. Her eyes were brewing over with guilty tears, and she was obviously in agony at her own tangled noose of emotions

and obligations of a love she no longer had. He heard her whisper his name like a requiem, felt her fingers swirl gently over his quaking spine

as he wept, then abruptly halt and depart when they stumbled over the beginning of his scars.

_Forgive me, please._ _I can't..._ Her lingering, and hesitation only drew out the agony to its finale as he snarled, hands fisting into his hair.

The words broke over him, felt like shattering glass, felt like he was being hacked to pieces again. He never knew that the heart could ache

more than the flesh.

But, he never knew that faces were little more than deceptive masks of skin and bone that could hide intentions.

And, as a possible future chapter...

His teeth were bared in a glittering smile, the lips garishly painted in his own blood.as his grin grew wider than the gates of hell, the eyes

glinting with dark promise of something hidious before the night was over. His tongue bled scarlet over the silver as he licked the blade with

a suggestive eyebrow waggling. He saw her pale, sweating fear, and cackled.

"You're a pretty thing, you know that. I like...pretty things."

"Scars are pretty _things._ Bright things, that leave a trace of their existance, the one thing that draws the eye when you don't want to

see. After all, what would I know about scars?" He gave a shrug of humorous irony as he languidly swirled a finger down his marred jaw.

She whimpered, cowered like an animal beneith him, scuttling back into the refuge of the shadows like a roach. Amused, he only cackled, tilted his

head, consideringly.

"Now there's all sorts of scars, you know. Each one unique in its pain, each one so perversely honest, each one a memory that carries

a reminder of the dark things that so many wish to forget...tell me something, What catches your eye the most, the sick act that cut up a human face,

or the fact that you're transfixed, and you just ...can't turn _away?"_

His unmarred hands crept over the flesh of her face with ironic gentleness, and she gaped to see something almost human shimmering in those eyes before

the mad glee broke through like a bloated corpse flung to the surface of the churning waters.

"I'm sorry!" The apology was little more than a panicked squeal as she writhed under his iron grip and ground out a pleading whimper when she felt the cold

blade against the corner of her mouth.

"Maybe we could put a smile on that face, eh? A bright, happy, ear to ear smile that never goes away. A wonderful, delusional grin to let the world see those

pearly whites. What do you say?" The knife danced over the corner of her mouth, plunged between her teeth, and slid back out again, leaving her with a mouth full

of blood, her face intact. She slumped in relief, as he smirked.

"The truth? Truth and lies, only one truth, and so many lies around it all. Interesting paradox, but they say the road to hell is the distance in between.

A road that I walk on quite proudly. After all...with a face like _this..." _he hissed, as he drew the blade over his cheek,"what would I know about _hell?"_

His chuckle was light and dismissing as he waggled a coy eyebrow and finger. "


	2. Of the Flesh

Morning dawned, bright and rude over the fragmenting hues of sepia and calming beige of his hospital room, as he groaned himself awake and fretfully twisted in the sheets. It had been another long night, dreaming of blades, and waking to the ache of not having her near. Wearily,  
he ran fingers over his cheeks, grunted at the painful realization that they were still there. Time slid by its grinding path outside, but it seemed to stall and die, in here.

The monotony was only broken by the meals that arrived on time every day, served neatly on his bedside table, complete with a styrofoam box, and plastic silverwear, or a nurse or doctor performing some medical necessity on his face. He grimaced in distaste at the slop that was pureed and in neatly scooped out domes on his tray, swirled a fork through it, debated slinging it at a wall. It was supposed to be easy to swallow, a very practical consideration of how much agony he would be in if he so much as moved his jaws wrong over the splintered skin. The stitches, at least, held admirably. They had sewn his tattered flesh together so neatly, that there was only "minimal damage" done to his body. Only a small and passing thing, he supposed, the loss of her,  
the shattering of any semblance of normalacy, or even the ability to look at his image in a mirror and not want to vomit from the sight. His tongue danced over the threads on the inside of his cheek, and he worked his jaw uncomfortably at the sensation. Oh, yes, they had sewed him up like a quilt, so nicely patched, and pretty.

He raised a spoon, idled it in the dripping goo that was supposed to be 'scrambled eggs', and he stabbed it through the styrofoam, with a grimace.  
It didn't matter that much, anyway. It hurt to eat. It hurt to breathe. Hell, it hurt to live at the moment. He pushed the bedside table away, and flopped back onto the bed.

His solitude was broken by the sound of the tech's cart rattling on battered wheels towards the door. His already considerably ill-temper soured more when he saw the gawking stare of disbelief lighting the tech's eyes as the tech quickly diverted his eyes and attention to the tray full of gauze, swabs and antiseptic.  
Eyes narrowing, and his mouth twisting itself as far as he could without too much pain, he scowled and warily glared at the tech. "And what is this?" His voice was a low, questioning hiss as he inched away. The tech raised an eyebrow, sighed, and waved a hand over the various bottles,  
"Disinfectant, and an anti-biotic to prevent your...stitches from becoming infected. I have to check for inflamation, as well at sensation to make sure the skin is healing right. So, if you'd lay back, I'll get to it."

The information was delivered in a bored tone as the tech was already prepping the gloves after scrubbing his hands with disinfectant. He bowed his head, slid his eyes upwards, considering, before he grit his teeth, forced himself downward on his back. He tried to stop the shiver at the realization of how vulnerable he was,  
laying helpless, and exposed, and about to endure the sensation of somebody actually touching his face. Closing his eyes, he fisted his hands into the hem of the hospital gown and endured the suddenly horrible waiting with his heart surging and his mind racing from the memories of what a human hand had done to him.

The tech's hand dabbled something cold and wet with the swab over the stitches, swirling them over the thread, gently. It felt like her caress, and he grit his teeth to stop the sob. The tech only stared at the reaction, the bone-jarring flinch, the way his face crumbled as if he were expecting a blow. The tech paused in his work, considering, before speaking. "It's my understanding that you've been through quite a trauma, sir. I understand why you would never want to have your face touched again. Unfortunately, this has to be done to prevent any more damage. If it's too much, I can wait?"

He panted, shaking his head, and exhaling a long held breath. "No..just get this over with as soon as possible. As for the damage..." he snickered.  
"If the damage can't be undone, then what the hell is a little more to deal with?" The tech did not deem it necessary to answer the dark musing as he lay back down on the bed, turned his cheek towards the guaze, and waved a hand in permission to continue. The tech swabbed at the stitches, carefully avoiding any sudden movements. It mattered little, though. His patient had his burning dark eyes shut from pain that was far more than just skin. The tech continued on the other cheek, and brightly supplied, "They're healing up well. You should be able to get the stitches taken out soon."

"Is that so?" The words were so weary as his patient idly slid a hand over his cheeks, whispering, "Do you think that I'll heal up enough that I have no scars?  
Do you think there's enough drugs in the world to get some oblivion from this?" The tech bit his lip. "Sir? I think only you can answer that." He neatly discarded gloves and guaze into the trash, and lingered a moment after he had finished returning all the medical apparatus to their places. "I'll be back later to rebandage the deeper cuts. Have a nice day." The tech turned on his heel and wheeled the cart away, leaving his patient to uselessly brood, eyebrow quirking at the absurdity of his passing remark.

Have a nice day?! Of course, I'll have a nice day. As soon as I fart angels and everybody else has their face sliced up as neat as lunch meat. Of all the damn things to say...

So, the days passed. He was curtly polite when he had to speak, only answered what had to be answered, ate what had to be eaten to sustain life, and mostly curled up in his bed til it cocooned him from the world, resenting the time outside passing, but finding himself so bitter and pissed off at the state of his life, that he could do no more.

If they had just left him the hell alone about his scars..if they had just let him go, if he was just allowed to forget...the attack might have never happened, and the dark path to hell might have been completely averted. Apparently, it was an unnatural reaction to such trauma to hole up in his room, or it was the wrong reaction to be less than thrilled when offered a "therapy session." He dismissed that outright with a sarcastic salute of his middle finger raised high and proud in the reddening, and irrate doctor. He allowed a coy smirk, and shook his head, laughing until the cackle broke into a sob, and he continued the cackle until the doctor tensed, and hastily exited the room. Wiping away the tears, he slumped again, tilting his head and wondering, not for the first time if he was as insane as they were trying to convince him he was. No matter. At least then, he might get the good pills.

It was his refusal to have the stitches removed that triggered the first episode. Between the dark dreams of the attack, and the insomnia, the haunted life he could never regain, and the broken future, it churned in his gut, as the thoughts and the memories were ressurected and poisoned the little bit of good sense he had left.  
He was a wrecked, hollow shell, ready to be filled with whatever made him feel safe, and sane again. In his case, it was the discovery of how sharp the plastic handles of the spoons could be, if he whittled them down for a few hours, merticulously planning to shave them down to the slimmest point. In his mind, he conned himself, justified it, as he cradled the gleaming white piece of plastic in his hand and stared blankly at the walls. He knew he simply could not stand the thought of a knife in his hand...it was just too much. But, the homemade shank that he kept tucked in the hem of his gown was quite a convient thing. It was small..not much longer than his hand, and easily concealed, but it was shaved down to a sharp, deadly point, if he felt the need for it.

It was that day that he was scheduled to have the stitches removed. There was no explanation, no real informed consent, or any resemblance of it, just the announcment that the doctor was there to remove the stitches, and suddenly...there she was, standing over him, the gleaming surgical scissors against his chin. All he knew was that he was nearly crying from mind-numbing terror, as he lay sprawled and helpless with the metal so cold against his cheek. Cowering, pleading, and laying there like a dumbass only resulted in his current predicament. All he knew was that time froze, his blood froze, everything inside was insidiously chilled and numb until his groping fingers fell upon the salvation in the form of the shank. Shuddering, he suddenly flung arms wide in panic, and the doctor lurched back with a startled cry, the metal tray clattering to the floor, her hand cupped over the thin red line of blood trickling down the side of her face. Horrified, he held the shank out, trembling. He let it fall to the floor in numb, blind anguish. "I'm so sorry..." Her blood felt hot against his cold fingers, and he shivered at the sensation.  
"I didn't mean"  
It was the first and last apology that ever fell from his lips. Less than 20 seconds later, the room was flooded over with the burly orderlies, complete with the gurney efficiently lined with straps and a gleaming needle of thorozine. And all he could do was stand there with her blood on his hands, staring. It was over with before it truly began, it being such a one-sided fight. All he knew was that he was standing upright one moment, and the next, he was being swept downward by a flood of hands on him, holding him down, forcing him to be still, wrapping him in straps as if he were some odd present. All he felt was the numbing ice of the sedative as the nurse hastily plunged the needle hilt deep into his thigh.

NO!!

He lingered, tortured by the hazy, sluggish warmth that was overcoming him, the instinctive terror of being held down and having so many standing over him, just watching him. He grit his teeth, fighting the drowning as hard as he could, panting at the strain and trying not to shriek when he felt himself gently melting into the bed like water falling down a hillside. He lost the battle after a few more moments, allowed his head to lull uselessly, as his eyes slid shut, and everything in the world went still. 


	3. Of the Scars

His thoughts were sluggish boulders, coated in velvet as they gently rolled around in his numb and nearly throbbing skull. Awareness came increment by increment, sensation languidly dripped back, and he sensed, rather than felt, the instinctive shudder at his limbs being bound, and him being unable to stretch. His eyes shot open, and he drew in a shaking breath, fought down the whimper. Of all the cruel, sadistic things that could be done to him, leaving him at somebody's mercy was almost a distant second to the monster who had hacked his face. Opening his eyes, he gaped at the elaborate arrangement of straps, as he writhed against them. They didn't yield an inch. His ankles and wrists were held firmly at his sides by calfskin shields, while the straps crossed over at knees, hips, and just below his shoulders. At least they had been kind enough to tuck a pillow benieth his head as he slammed his skull back down to the gurney, closed his eyes, and feverishly wished it was all a nightmare.

It was the efficient clack of shoes and the soft snick of the door opening that drew his attention first, followed by the footfalls of at least two more sets of feet. Raising his head above the pillow, he warily watched as the doctor he had attacked earlier slid in, with a hand gliding over the fresh cut on her cheek, and a calculating smile.

She stared down at him, noting that he hardly seemed to be the strange thing that had nearly cut her. Indeed, that blind, frenzied panic of the trapped animal had been replaced with the young man miserably wilting underneith the straps and letting his head flop indifferently back to the matress. Sighing, he rolled his head to the side, did not trouble himself with opening his eyes, but only offered, " I didn't cut you deep enough to scar you. I'm...glad of that." He sighed, bit back the words, and said nothing more. There was nothing left to say.

She raised an interested eyebrow, lowered herself into the only chair beside his bed, carefully balanced the file she slid out of her brief case, and the note pad. The irony of the remark was not lost as her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and lingered for a long moment over his scars. He cringed, would have slapped the intrusive gaze away were his arms not bound.

Without pause, or explanation, she flipped open the patent leather planner, and began to jot down something on the paper, eyes flickering upward to note anything sigificant. There was no change in her patient, only naked misery, mixed with a bit of indifferent curiosity. "If you don't mind explaining it to me, in your own words...what exactly triggered such a volital reaction to something as minor as a simple medical procedure?"

It was unsettling to see the overwhelming anguish linger in those dark eyes for a moment, only to be discarded by something ugly, unsettling, and hard. She watched uneasily as he worked his tongue over the lattice work around the lips, as if considering the answer, before his eyes slid to hers. Tongue still gliding to the corner of the mutilation, noting her transfixed stare, he was silent for so long she thought he would not answer. She nearly flinched at the sudden lurch against the straps, the bared teeth. Coyly, he winked.  
"Let me walk you through this for a moment, Doctor..Er...let me try to meet you on your level. Despite the very kinky straps, and this scanty outfit, rest assured that I'm not exactly into bondage, or sadism. My apologies if I disappoint."

Her mouth hung open. His snapped shut with a smirk, or as much as he could manage. "Sir? That has nothing to do with my question."

He nodded, agreeably. She raised an exploritory hand to her cheek, the red line flaring against the pale skin, as she gestured. "How would you explain this, then? What exactly triggered such an outburst?"

He sighed, gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes to the heavens as if seeking guidance before offering her a mockingly patient smile. "Let's make the connection, shall we? I'll take it really slow so you can follow, and maybe, just maybe, I won't...have to answer the same dumbass questions again and again. If you write it down, and take notes, you can keep them with you in the event of a memory lapse. Since you seem to have less than satisfactory powers of observation, please note the rather large and noticable scars on my face?  
It seems that sharp pieces of metal applied to my mouth have less than satisfactory results."

She nodded, considering this information as she scribbled what ever she was jotting down across the notepad. He didn't know, or care. When she was done with her scribbling, she looked up again. "Let me see if I understand you, sir. The metal scissors being applied to your mouth triggered some sort of flashback? Is that why you reacted the way you did?"

He only blinked, and snorted. "Maybe. Let me ask you something. Do you really think a fish that suddenly finds a hook in its mouth really ponders a rational explanation as to why there's suddenly a piece of metal being shoved through the skin, or do they instinctively flop around trying to be free of that blinding pain?"

"But you cut me." Her voice was low as a snarl, as her aggitated fingers crept up to her cheek, almost heedless of her will. He winced, as his eyes suddenly came to rest on her cheek with a vague sadness she could not place. Softly, he shook his head, and whispered, "But you're not scarred."

With an eerie cackle, he only shook his head, perversely amused. "My apologies, but I had no more choice in that cut on your cheek than I did with the bone deep lacerations on mine. Frankly, I don't know exactly why you're whining, doctor. Judging from the rest of your unmarred face , the cheeks in particular, I don't think you've ever been held down in a pool of your own blood, and wondering if you were going to drown in it.  
I don't believe you've ever experienced the thrill of pain as your flesh is sawed away from your bone, and the only question that races through your mind is if they're going to be merciful enough to kill me if it stops the pain. I don't believe you've ever woken up in a hospital bed, and found the love of your life staring at you with disgust before she gives you a last kiss and walks away because she can't stand the sight of you any more."

He shrugged as best he could. "I don't know about you, but that's one hell of a bad day, and I think I'm allowed the luxury of a few issues. Hell, maybe I should get a subscription for them. And, while you're at it,  
why don't you write me a prescription for some happy pills, eh? Would probably go with the smile a bit more."

She shuddered at his smirk. 


	4. Of The Mouth and Teeth

(Author's Note...I've looked all over the Internet for the backstory of how the Joker got his scars, and found several versions, everything from his wife being

disfigured by a car accident, and he cut his own face so she wouldn't feel so ashamed, to a drunken and abusive parent with a knife. I've heard several

versions of torture, (most commonly known as the Glascow smile, and the Chelsea Grin,) in which a victim's cheeks are sliced upward by a blade,to give the victim a huge, permanent 'smile.' Human depravity has a lot of imagination, but very little limits. I am in no way attempting to justify the dark path that the Joker chose

to go down. Life is hardly a picnic for any of us, but we all have to choose how we deal with our pain. Having horrific things done to a person can give a reason, but

not a justification, and not an excuse. My apologies if I offend in saying that...I do like the fact that the Dark Knight is one of the few films that makes no attempt to humanize a monster, or justify what he does. It's quite a refreshing change.

I've looked all over the Internet for the Joker's actual name, and the only one that I have found consistantly used in both the comic books

and the cartoons is Jack Napier. Lest there be any doubt as to where my particular version of the Joker came from, it is based on Heath Ledger's phenominal

performance in Dark Knight. I would recommend seeing the movie, but only with a very strong warning that his role is extremely dark, and a case study in

chilling depravity. It's not a movie for little kids, at all, or those who are affected by dark themes, or violence. I saw quite a few little kids viewing the film, and

found that disturbing. Finally, for my last bit of this very rare rant...Heath Ledger was a human being when he died. He wasn't worthy of worship, nor did he

or his loved ones do anything to deserve the cruel speculations and outright vicious rumors that have surrounded the poor man since he passed away. I don't think

he did anything to deserve dying so young, and I don't know if he did anything to deserve being cannonized. From the very shy way he seemed in interviews, I don't think he would have appreciated either one. Mr. Ledger might have gone to some extreme limits to conjure up the Joker, or he may not have. He may have only had

a bad reaction to some pills and it might have all been nothing more than a very, very heart-breaking accident. Only God knows the reasons, the whys, whatever

last thoughts might have, or might not have been. I don't. Neither does anybody else, including the assorted media whores who surrounded the story like a bunch

of vultures before he was even buried. Regardless of his actions, or not, Mr. Ledger didn't deserve that, and I cringe at the thought of his loved ones having to endure such a painful moment in public. So, if you want to remember him, do so. Post a good tribute on YouTube, say a prayer for his family, make your peace with God, and live each moment while you're here. Anyway, God bless, thank you for putting up with my rant, and reading my stories. And, of course, Mr. Ledger, wherever your soul abides, may you find peace. Thank you for the glimpse. Anyway, onto the story...

He tilted his head to the left, peering at her, his dark eyes narrowed and gaging her reaction with detached curiosity. " Tell me, Doctor, what is _it?_

What exactly is making you so...all twitchy and uncomfortable, the fact that you're wrestling with guilt over the disgust you have with my scars, or the

..unease you have with my reaction to a situation that should have a _sane_ person pissing themselves in tears?" His voice was a low, languid crawl,

rising and dipping from those scarred lips with maliced glee.

She had gone several shades paler, looking as if he really had stabbed her, and was taking her down for the kill. But, no..he shook off the horrible thought

with no remorse. She was the one who was so eager to pry away the wound that lay festered and bleeding beneath the jagged scars.

"Let's at least drop the pretense, Doctor. Sanity is relative. It's a wide standard that _you_ use to decide if I'm broken enough to _need_ fixing, if my functioning

in the narrow confines of _your _world are enough to live up to your own ideas of how I should behave. But, that's not sanity. That's obedience. And even as a child,

I was very, very _disobedient." _He leered.

She looked as if she had swallowed her tongue, as her eyes bulged. Shaking herself to regain the indifferent veneer of proper, and clinical detachment, she dropped his gaze, and took her eyes to the notebook. Resettling herself into the seat, she took the pen to the pad, and sighed. "Do you think that medication...might...help?"

He snorted. "Legal, or illegal?"

She raised a peeved eyebrow in irritation. "Legal, of course! I'm not writing a prescription for whatever chemical enhancement you found on the streets!"

His eyes darkened, narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop with the chill that suddenly filled his eyes. "And what makes you think that I ever

descecrated myself by doing some sort of chemical like the common thugs who cut up my face? Are all of these assumptions that swirl around your head there for the necessity of avoiding having to think too hard, or are they there because you're too scared to? What resides in _your _head, anyway? Do the voices talk, or yodel? "

Her face had gone from trembling white to raging scarlet in a matter of moments. Shaking, she rose, carefully tucked everything back into the leather satchel, and

swirled on a heel to face him. 'I think our session is done for the moment." She faltered miserably when she saw that alien sadness cloud those eyes again, as he

jerked uselessly against the straps. With a sadistic smirk, the moment was gone, but his voice was still soft and almost forlorn, as he whispered, "It hurts to be probed, Doctor. Remember that."

She shivered, and exited the room in haste, after hearing his parting remark, "And, yes, I would like those happy pills, if you please! Make them good, darling!"

The eerie cackle that echoed from the sparse room seemed needle sharp as she shut the door behind her.

He sighed, with satisfaction. He wasn't exactly sure why it was so amusing to unsettle somebody who was supposed to help him. He wasn't sure where so much

venom came from. Wearily, he allowed his head to flop back onto the mattress, bored, needing to piss, and, if he cared to admit it, miserable. The restraints, though covered with the lambskin so they wouldn't chafe, and loose enough to not constrict circulation, or breathing, would have been irritating, if he could stand being

so vulnerable. In truth, his sarcasm, the manic mask that he had adopted, the smile so wide it cracked against the stitches, the bright, insane laughter that burbled up like poison and spewed his madness to anybody who came near...it was all he had left. It was his only defense against a world that he had discovered had grown so much more dark and cold in a matter of a few seconds, a couple of monsters, and a blade applied to his face. In a perverse way, the newly hacked and permanent smile was a far better defense than anybody could ever concoct against anybody hurting him again. Hell, from the way that even the trained professionals shuddered at the sight of him...he could only imagine what the gawking, sick world outside the ward would do, if and when he was released.

He wondered for a tortured moment, if there was any way in heaven or hell that anything would be left for him o_ut there._ It hurt too much to even consider, so he simply did not.

After the hours crawled by slowly, two burly aids came in with scowls on their faces, and stood over him like guard dogs for a moment, as one of them grunted out that he was to be released from the straps "if he was a good boy, and did no funny stuff." The loud knuckle-popping and the vicious way he was hauled to his feet and nearly dumped on the floor left him little room to ponder what would happen if he was a 'bad boy.' He bit back the snide remark about being spanked for another day. His whole body ached from being forced down for so long, and if he didn't attend to his bladder, soon...he shivered at that humilation, and was as cowed as a beaten dog as they finally stepped aside and allowed him entry to the toilet that was carved into the small room's corner. Irritated, he stared over his shoulder, silently waiting for the aids to at least allow him privacy to attend to _this._ "Either do it now, or do it on yourself later, mincemeat. It don't matter to us."

Sighing, he grit his teeth, turned his back and hastily finished, chafed at the cruel exhibition, and even more humilated. At least they allowed him to wash his hands without making that simple task an ordeal. Shivering in the flimsy material of the gown, he curled arms around himself. "To what do I owe the pleasure of the unstrapping, anyway?" His question was quiet, but coy as he huddled against the cold, grey bricks behind him, peering at the guards warily. From the evil exchange of smirks that the two aids gave each other, and the unpleasant smile he was given, he knew it was not because somebody felt sorry for him.

" 'Seems you had an 'episode' earlier today with one of the docs. They have therapy for whackjobs like you. Your first session begins as soon as we get you there."

"It sounds exciting." He gave them an equally wide smirk. "Please lead the way, then. I am most flattered that they want to help me here."

The aids snickered, and his gut clenched in sharp, painful warning.

"There" turned out to be a long, dark stroll down the twisting corridors of the wings that swung out into ever widening spirals of sparce metal doors and gleaming,

waxed tile and fluourescent lights that glowered down on everything. The harsh glare made his eyes ache, as he bowed his head and shuffled along meekly,

flanked by one of the attack dogs on either side. He said nothing, only reached backwards to tuck the fold of the huge gown under one arm so the back would at least stay shut, and nearly yelped at the sharp pain of their sudden, punishing grip on either wrists. They found it odd that an animal who would attack the lady doctor would have enough sense not to resist. But, they did not see the reassuring, cocky grin that lit his face for a brief moment when he felt the shank still

tucked into the hem of his gown, either. If they wanted to play _that _sort of game, he might as well play along.

He was uncerimoniously shoved into the 'treatment room' so hard he nearly fell on his face. When he didn't move fast enough to please them, he found himself

suddenly snatched into the air, nearly flipped over onto his back, as he was slammed down into the gurney and hastily strapped down, _again._

They simply rolled him where they wanted him, locked the bed's wheels, and left him laying there. Quirking an eyebrow, and fighting down the panic, he

only ventured to mutter, "Seems that they are far too fond of bondage here. Who's there,anyway? Doc, nurse, quack?"

The words were abruptly, and painfully halted by the sudden and vicious rubber gag that was shoved into his mouth. He tasted the horrible tang of latex and

blood as the rubber spreader was plunged deeper and deeper into his throat until he felt the stitches strain and he was nearly in tears. Panting, he turned his head to the side and tried to spit the thing out. He soon found that it was impossible from the vicious, gloved fist that appeared over his face and held it firmly. He ground out

the high whine of pain, shivering as the hand suddenly disappeared, and two faces appeared in his hazy vision. One was the lady doctor, looking pale and almost sick, and the other was a man in a white coat, who gave him a beneveloent smile, and a gentle, condensending pat on the head.

The doctor did not bother pulling his hand away as the patient snarled,gave him a look of absolute loathing and a flinch for his troubles.

"Now, now, Mr. Napier. There's no need for any of this." The voice was a silken purr, elegantly mocking and benign as he smiled. Jack stopped struggling,

gave him a glare that hit like a blow. It was the eerie smile coiled around the rubber that made the doctor's stomach twist. Jack's chuckle was little

more than a muted choke from the thing in his mouth.

The doctor returned his grin with a considering tilt of the head, and suddenly, Jack felt the hands draping over his cheeks again, yanking the strap backwards

like a rider might yank the bridle of a runaway horse.

The patient tried to twist his face away from the unyielding grip, the unyielding straps, was only rewarded by the vicious tug that started tearing his flesh away.

He was flopping like a fish on a hook, fists curling into panicking white-knuckled knots, as his spine convulsed into a massive jerk that would have had forehead touching his knees, were it not for the restraints.

It was nothing less than torture. A shrill, gurgled shriek triggered by blinding, searing pain, held back by the gag that was strained and grinding against the stitches.She watched, numb and stricken, as blood seeped through the corners of his mouth, the sickening choke of muted squeals as he writhed uselessly,

before some of the threads turned scarlet and then broke. The barely healed flesh was splintering open as he twisted his head and mouth , trying and failing again

to escape.

He shuddered, instincts twitching in a spasm the way a cockroach might after being crushed.

It was the last reaction she expected. He wept.

She stared in dismay as the dark eyes crumbled shut, the scars cracking around the corners of his mouth as they drew downward sharply into a cuve borne of agony. He lay heaving, trying to inhale enough air as his violated lungs thirsted for. And he sobbed, the tears leaking in vicious trails on the path of the scars,

mingling with the gore dribbling down each cheek.

With a triumphant smirk, the doctor rose like a god above the wilted, weeping victim, staring down at his agony with only cold silence for a long moment.

"Now, then. Let's try this again, shall we? Are you going to allow me to proceed with as little interference as possible, or will I have to just wait until you pass out from blood loss and pain?" The doctor stared down at him with infinite patience, as he swallowed back the blood that filled his throat, whimpering at the fire lacing

hot across the torn muscles. With no warning, the doctor simply extended his hands, gripped the gag at each side, and with one cruel swipe, tore it free of the clenched teeth. She turned away, sickened at the snap of surgical thread and the scarlet lines that dangled from the corners of his mouth. She heard nothing from the patient but the dying sigh, the tormented whimper because he couldn't scream any more. His dark eyes locked with hers, searing with tears for the moments he lingered in awareness before he finally went limp in a dead faint. The blood formed a pool around his open mouth.

Indifferently, the doctor placed a gloved palm at the pulse point of his throat, and gave her a curt nod. "He's only unconscious. He'll live."

Her storming eyes stared mutely at the twisted form on the gurney, and then back to him. "Why did you do that, doctor?! He's absolutely helpless, and a patient!

How could you just...torture him like that?!"

Her shrill question faded when he bolted awake with a cry. He would have flown straight to the floor if he wasn't still bolted down, as if they really expected him to put up any sort of fight. The remnants of the nightmare still coiled around him, and he panted, slammed eyes shut, tried to calm the pounding in his chest and the thunder of the panic surging through his shot nerves. Shivering miserably, he winced at how cold the room was. They had only draped him with a sheet, and it was hardly adequate. He grimaced when he felt the slimed pool of something sticky and wet against his cheek, and manuvered his neck to view it, expecting it to be

nothing more than drool. It was an embarassing problem he had picked up due to his inability to sleep comfortably with his mouth closed. Clenching teeth from the nightmares only aggrivated the slender threads. He stared in gaping disbelief when he saw the scarlet pool inches from his cheek. He flinced at the sensation of cold

rubber against his shoulder, and hissed in shock to see the small, black round piece sitting so serenely on the pillow.

The gag.


	5. Lack of Restraints, and then some

Moments, fragments, frayed and sullied as a noose after the body was cut down. Awareness of pain, violation of the ache vibrating somewhere deep in his jaw bones

as he attempted to work teeth and lips into a snarl against the tugging thread. _THREAD?!_

Experimentally, he ran a timid tongue over the perfect little stitches that held the pieces of his flesh together, marveled at how tight and laced they were.He imagined that there would be nothing more than a small etched line over the darker, deeper gaps where his scars had been sliced. The blinding pain had faded to little more than a throbbing ache, or a vague discomfort at having string against his gums, when he was still. He used to have the annoying habit of chewing on the inside of his cheeks when he was perplexed, but after one or two episodes of the searing, corrective pain, he did not have a relapse of that. Now...now...

He was a caged rat. Stripped, strapped down, scarred. He flopped uselessly at the straps that still encased his body, and he let himself go limp again. He wondered, yet again, for the thousandth time, for the first time, it didn't matter any more with the way the thoughts just seemed to bounce around in his head

but never solidify enough for him to actually...think. Gritting his teeth, very, very carefully, he only sighed in disgust. All those thoughts seemed to be sliding downward, hungry and waiting against the hum of the white flourescent bulbs hanging above him, the gleaming, white walls all around him. And tortured introspection was a tool _they _used to screw with his head, not something he needed to be indulging in at the moment. Wearily, he sighed, shut his eyes in resignation, and wondered how in the hell his life had taken such a downward spiral. He had committed no crime, save defending _her._ Had he ran away, had he left her...he shivered at the painful realization he tried and failed to squelch. He would have buried his head in his hands, curled into a miserable ball of nerve-shattered, frenzied shrieking,

He would have risen from that bed, tracked _her _down and ...what?

He faltered, miserably, unable to answer himself, furious and helpless, and broken again as he just clenched his eyes shut, ignoring the sudden damp that was leaking in betraying trails from under each eye lid. He felt the disgusting slime of the tears slowly sliding down his torn cheeks, coming to rest in the scars, as he

hissed, then whimpered, laying his head down, and letting it all flow out of him until he was nearly sick with the chokehold the quiet crying had on his quaking throat.

Was the whole hideous nightmare just a sick dream, or did they actually tear his flesh? Staring at that small, intrusive bit of rubber laying so serene on his pillow,

tasting the dried blood that had cracked on his itching skin..the pool of scarlet on his white pillow...he felt doubt squirm inside as he shook his head.

It was the sound of the door opening that drew his wary attention as he stiffened in the sad attempt to prepare himself for whatever else was going to be meted out.

He let his head flop, and shut his eyes til he was barely able to see the white in the room.

He raised an eyebrow in suprise to see the lady doctor-his words for her, as she was the only female that he had seen in this place- crept in, silently shut the door behind her, carrying her brief case full of its important papers. She had disappeared out of his line of sight, but he heard the sound of wood scraping over the floor, the shuffle of papers, and knew that she was arranging the lone table and chair in the room as sort of an impromptu office. Her patient was strapped down, still, and she could see that he had struggled enough to get chafed wrists and ankles for his troubles. She could play at being detached and clinical all she wanted, but

to see him only staring at her as if in tormented waiting drew her curiosity. Her healing scab on her cheek itched in poisonious reminder, as she remembered what had happened during the previous 'session' with the patient. It was heartless and breath-taking, and provoking..and she didn't know what the hell to think.

Her professional restraint was rapidly crumbling into something very wrong and dark as she forced herself to turn away, open the brief case, pretend that the only thing she came here for was a preliminary interview with the patient, to sort out whatever sort of trauma he had so he could be properly treated, and maybe released.

She did not question the mad impulse that lead her to draping a hand over his shoulder. She ran the other finger down her cheek, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she felt him convulse with a cry, and his dark eyes shot open. He stared up at her with loathing and terror. The scars on his cheeks were curled up into a silent scream as he shook his head, nearly in tears when she smirked and draped the scalpel against his cheeks. "You know, I stitched your face back together."

She whispered, quietly, as the blade danced over the threads. "I thought it was the least I could do for you after you nearly cut me. It was easy, you know, to

put the pieces back together, when you fainted."

His fists clenched into helpless knots so harsh that his fingernails dug moons into his palms as he swallowed hard, forced the question out, his eyes rolling frantically towards the gag that lay inches from his mouth.

"Why?!"

She slithered over him, hands gently sliding where they should not, breath, hot and unwanted against the scars as she hissed into his ear.

"Curiosity, maybe. Maybe I'm depraved, and maybe I just have a scar fetish. Does it really matter?"

She felt his whole frame beneith her palm spasm in the shiver of misery and violated terror. The whimper of pleading almost died on his lips, but nearly rose to a shriek as she brushed the scars, and he slammed his eyes shut, as the tears started leaking down.

"You don't want...this? Even if it means literally saving face?" His head whipped back and forth sharply. And his eyes were huge with fear and turmoil as he slid the milimeter away that the straps would allow. It was the only distance he could go at the moment, and it was clear that he was about to collapse into hysterics, as he shuddered again.There was only the sound of his heaving breath, and the shrill, grinding wince.

Her face hung over his, inches away, her hair falling down around her in one bright curtain as she almost timidly raised the scalpel to his lips.

"Well, then? What choice is it going to be?" Her eyebrow was raised in coy sarcasm, as she watched him. To her shock, his lips curled viciously, and he bared his

teeth. With the hatred shimmering in his eyes, he worked his mouth over the blade, the bright, sick grin sprouting around it. He even allowed the blade to slice his cheek, slightly, the blood dribbling down the corner of his mouth as he smirked. "How's that for an answer? Is it clear enough for you, or do I need to swallow the whole thing?"

Her jaw dropped, as he looked perversely smug. "Tell me something, doctor. Is it your practice to get your patients to talk by sticking sharp objects in their mouths, or do I just trigger a particularly bitchy reaction?"

Without waiting an answer, he slid his lips free from the blade, worked the ache away from his mouth, his eyes narrowed, and wary as a hunted animal.

The blade clattered to the floor.

"Do you have such an aversion to being touched, _still?"_ Her cruel question was softly spoken as he only sighed and shook his head, disbelieving. Gritting his teeth, he forced the sarcastic veneer to rise full and free. "I have an aversion to sharp metal things being applied to my mouth. I don't see exactly why you have issues with me being leery of that, but if you do, kindly f-- off, please."

From that bright, splitting grin that raptured her face, to the not so subtle palm over his thundering heart that it was the worst thing he could say.

" That was a poor choice of words, Mr. Napier." Her hated hands roved freely over his face and he fought the urge to bite her finger. Shivering, he closed his eyes,

forced his expression to go lax, as his hands groped for the shank that he still had tucked into the hem of his gown. Eyes slowly sliding open, he worked the

weapon free from the cloth, worked fingers around the make shift hilt, and then stared into her moonlight colored eyes, blinking, and breathing.

"Would you be doing this if I wasn't strapped down and helpless?" He tilted his head to the side, with a grimace.

She leaned forward, her mouth inches from his, her throat bared as if in invitation, her body almost flush with his as he felt the unwanted kiss brush against his lips.

Cracking his eyes open to a mere slit, he jabbed the shank upward into the two inches that the restraint on his wrist allowed, and was rewarded by the shriek of pain, and the hot, wet blood that suddenly dribbled down on his shaking hand. He felt the blade suddenly snatched away, the bone-deep recoil as she flung herself away. His eyes shot open, curious and gleeful to see what damage was inflicted, and was disappointed to see that he hadn't impaled her heart and left her dead at his strapped down feet. _Wouldn't work anyway. That bitch has to have a heart to begin with..._

She had lurched away with a cry at the sharp bite of something against her hand, jerked it up after seeing the sliver of plastic jutting from the hem of his gown. Dumbly, she raised her hand to see the deep cut across her palm, the shank embedded in her sleeve, the red soaking the white. Glaring down at him, her eyes seemed to shift from bewildered confusion to eerie, focused intent, as she shook her head with a chuckle. Grunting, she yanked the plastic out, dangled it curiously

in front of his face, and pat his forehead, with a coy, slow caress. He flinched, but smirked triumphantly. "Is it a bit clearer now that I don't want you touching me? You said yourself you had a scar fetish. Now you have two."'


	6. Sadism

It was a brutal, churlish staring contest that was rapidly crumbling to unbearable, sickening torment that he was growing very tired of. His face was fixed in that eerie, rigor mortis grin, though his eyes were glittering suspciously for a moment.

"It's deceptive, you know. These scars don't exactly give a lot of lee way expression wise any more. I'm just a smiling ball of sunshine underneith this chop job, you know? And it shows." His voice was scraped raw, as he tiredly closed his eyes. She shrank away when he stared at her with a mirthless amusement, tilted his head to the side, casually continued the torment as if the conversation had nothing amiss.

"Oh, come now, doctor. Surely you don't anticipate...sanity in all of this? Do you really think that it's just my face that's been a bit...changed?" The last word was purred as his eyes slowly ventured up her body, the tongue lighting his lips again. It was not an attempt at seduction, though. His lips were cracked and bloodied. "It hurts, you know that? This whole thing...just hurts." And he said no more, just flopped his head back down. That odd smirk returned when he felt the scalple gently probing the corner of his mouth.

The only sound was hot breath, mixed with mint and silence as she stared down at him, suddenly gripping his chin, and forcing his face upward. The pain had to be blinding as he helplessly shuddered and bucked beneith the straps. "This whole thing is going to hurt a lot more." She whispered quietly. He chuckled, shook his head. "I wouldn't want you to break your promise of hurting me a lot less, doctor. It's just not fitting with this bitchy persona of yours, do you understand?"."

Her fingers were twitching indecisively, clutching and unclutching the scalple, as he only waited, perversely serene and amused as the blood dribbled over the unnatural pale of the ridges crowning his face.

"You choose being cut over being...touched?" She tilted her head, considering. He snickered brightly.

"I'm already touched in the head. Have you not noticed?"

She set the scalple down, unnerved by the words, and honestly not sure what the hell was going on now.  
If he was strapped down and at her mercy, then why did she feel like she was the one being hunted?

"You prefer a blade to the touch of a hand. Explain that." He sighed in irritation at the nearly shrill whine of her voice.

"Nope." It was airily spat as he shook his head, and yawned. He was not suprised to feel the cold blade being shoved into his flesh again, the scalple snapping one of the threads with a quiet pop that made him flinch as if she really had stabbed him.

He rolled his eyes heavenward, exaggeratingly studying the ceiling in parodied boredom, and shrugged as much as the straps would allow. "Tell me something, doctor. Why do you think a knife to the mouth is so necessary when a simple 'pretty please' might do? Is that too much to ask for?"

She raised an eyebrow, as if insulted at the absurdity of the situation. "You cut me twice."

He gave her annoyed huff, opened, and shut his mouth, his eyes sliding from mad mirth to sharp, cutting rage. "And you ripped my face open, drugged me, keep me strapped down, and then you hit on me, all the while threatening to slice my hansome mug. Excuse me all to hell for not getting your decidely mixed signals. Believe me, I'm not that good." He looked almost apologetic.

Now, that pissed her off. He could tell from the stiffening in her frame, to the whitening around her knuckles, the tension that pinched that white line between her eyes.

"Rest assured, Mr. Napier. My applying the scalple to your mouth was definitely not a threat." Her lips were inches from his ear, and he fought the urge to spit at her. He was absolutely helpless and it was making him twitchy and fearful. He hated it, and he wasn't sure how much more he could stand of it.

"Yeah? Glad we cleared up the confusion, doctor. I wouldn't want any misconstrued guilt over a misunderstanding. I'd only want you to gut me if you really meant it. Keeps things a little less...uncluttered."

She gave another annoyed huff. "You were nearly ready to piss yourself when I actually touched you, yet you're so nonchalant now. You don't think that's a bit of a mixed signal in itself?"

He languidly allowed himself to slump, twisted his wrists upward in a gesture of surrender. He turned his face, the side with the most garish scars into the pillow. He winked at her, the smile half hidden and coy from the white fluff. "A blade is just a blade. It cuts things. It doesn't matter if it's a scalpel or a dagger.  
That's all it does, that's what it's for. It doesn't change. It's...fair"  
He looked at her hands for a long moment, his own fingers abscently curling and uncurling as he continued,  
"But, a hand? It's not so simple, see? A person's hands...they have power. You might have just been trying to put me at ease...maybe you're just frisky, or lonely, or just sadistically cruel to push the advantage you have over me at the moment.." He gave her a grin and a wink of dark promise, that made the words in her throat throb and die from the chill.

"Now, if I were stupid, or desperate, you might have been justified. Hell, it might have been wanted, if I was consenting, and not strapped down. Don't get me wrong... you're sort of vaguely attractive when it's dark, and I squint."

He was gratified to see the flush of rage pass over her cheeks at the barb.

"But, your touch sends me into absolute convulsions. Consider it a body-wide dry heave. Until recently, I had no objection to my...ex-fiance having her wicked way with me. But, I'll be damned before I ever let anybody have any way with me again. You can slit me open from neck to knees before I allow that."

She looked as if she had been hit with something very hard, from her languid blink of incomprehension, to her puzzled, scared look. She fumbled miserably, before she dredged back enough of that fake confidence to attempt to break him again.

"I'm suprised, Mr. Napier. I would figure that you would have learned by now that your scars have already...limited your prospects. Didn't the supposed love of your life take one look at you and leave?"

It was the ravaged, broken flash of anguish too deep for words that darkened his eyes. It was the rise of tears and the tremble of his lips that made him look so lost and scared and human, before the emotion was bitten back and strangled by the hardened veneer that made his expression all the more hideous.

"That's pretty damn funny coming from a whore that has to resort to threatening a man with a knife...and still didn't get any." 


	7. Pretty Things

The scalpel slid lower, and lower, trailing from his tensed jaw, to the shoulder, dancing an eerie circle over his throat, cutting, but never drawing blood, as she halted its horrific path at his thigh. His eyes slid shut, his lip twisted into his teeth, as she smirked. "And that's sad words from a man I can make sure never gets any...again."

He could not stop the sigh of relief and the flinch as she dropped the scalple back onto the side table, with a triumphant little cackle of glee. "But, I'm not that cruel, Mr. Napier. You see...it only takes a hint, a suggestion, hell, only a thought to bring a man to his knees and make him beg. They're all too easy to break, though you've got a refreshing bit of spirit I find most tantilizing."

She mockingly caressed his snarled curls, mussing them fondly, as he grit his teeth and swallowed hard. His fingers twitched in their harnesses like dying spiders, burrowing helplessly in the hem of his starched gown, desperately folding over what little concealment he had left. The fingers in his hair were obviously affecting him in a way that threats had not, she noted, with wry amusement. Indeed, Mr. Napier was almost whimpering. "Did your fiance' used to touch you like this? Is that why you're almost in tears?"

He did not answer, he couldn't. There was no sound except for the hissing breath he was sucking into his clenched jaws, his whole body taut with the strain of too many memories, too much sensation, the harsh ache of all that he had lost, rising again. Again. He never thought such a brutal loss would hurt so much, still. He didn't know how to deal with it yet. It was the one thing that could still scrape his heart raw, make it twist in his chest like a dying animal. She pulled her hand away, stared at the wet shimmering on her manicured nails, in wonder. "Tears?" she breathed, fascinated. "She meant that much to you?"

The sound he made was somewhere between a sob and a groan as he slowly opened his eyes. She saw for the first time that his eyes were the same dark that she had once seen brooding in the sky before a tornado hit. Agony made them obsidion. He did nothing for a long moment, then spat, quietly, "You're a real bitch, you know that?"

She smirked. "You're a perceptive one, you know that? I think you already knew that I was slightly depraved even before I actually acted on my impulses. Do you want to know the real reason why I...keep playing with you?"

He shook his head, slowly, yawned languidly in that infuriating attempt at non-chalance he instinctively knew would piss her off. It was ...almost unnerving, how fluid his emotions were, how quickly he could conjure up a new spin, or a new mask to wear. It made her afraid, though she had no real reason to fear him.  
"It's my vivacious charm, and stunning good looks, right?" The words were light, and airy before they dissolved into a cruel, searing hiss. His eyes, and body went frigid beneath her hands, as his eye slid up to her, burning. "See, I know you. I imagine that you have your share of headgames you play with yourself. Little lies that you manipulate to hide what you really are from the world. I imagine that you've probably worked damn hard at convincing the people here how much you enjoy helping the helpless head jobs that come through here. They probably sing your praises when an angel takes a shit, and you get to whore yourself out for the glory. A very, very nice set up." He purred at her scowl.

"I'm not a whore." She huffed, red faced and offended. He quirked an eyebrow at that. "Right again, doctor. A whore actually gets some from her clients. But...here, let me spell it out for you. I'll use little words for you, alright? You get your jollies off of having people at your mercy. You're probably a shining example of personal failure on every level, but...this one. And I imagine the only way that you've managed to keep your pretty little head in with the intellectual sharks here..." He leered at her, wagged an eyebrow. The truth made her flush even deeper, "is by giving those heavy-minded men a sweet little distraction they just can't find from schitzos and pyschoes, and the other assorted crazies. Come on, now, doctor. I know you want a taste of depravity. A bit of a moment that you don't have to pay for by denying the fact that what you're doing is so, so wrong. A bit of solace from all the torment that a dying conscious can deliver. A time when you can completely give yourself over to the dark and see if it's everything you've been fantasizing about for so long."

The oily words slid from his throat like vomit, as he stared in awe at her starry, vancant eyes, the hunger he could manipulate, the possibility of a vengence so dizzyingly sweet for all of her torture.. His voice was little more than a velvet purr, laced with temptation, heavy with promises of all things forbidden. The words were the perfect distraction from his quiet struggle of working the one strap free from his wrist. It was nearly slick with the friction of his sweat, but slowly fraying. His frantic motion was stopped with one slender hand on his wrist, and he froze, when he felt her hands on him again, gently settling him back prone and lacing up the restraint again.

"I was wondering exactly how long you were willing to carry on this conversation. " She gave him a small pat on the head at his growl of frustration. She yelped as he suddenly wretched his neck around, and succeeded in wrapping lips and jaw over her extended fingers-two of them- and she shuddered when she felt the tongue slide over the knuckles, warm, wet and unwelcome. He nipped at her flesh, only clamped his sharp teeth until they drew blood. Dumbly, she stood, horrified, instinctively belted him in the mouth. The shudder did not reach his jaw, only made him squint with rage and chomp down. She went still after yanking didn't free her hand. Indeed, she felt the teeth bare down harder.

"Suprise!" It was a gleeful caw, as his scars blossomed into a hideous smile around the fingers. "Bet you weren't expecting this!"

"Let go of me! You can't-" The snicker cut off her words, muffled as it was. The saliva made her sick as his tongue rolled with the hitch of laughter. "Can't what? Bite through the bone? You really want to find that out"  
She could barely make out the garbled words, but his dark eyes darting to the restraints, as well as teeth digging into her flesh left her little illusion about his intention to actually bite them off.

"The straps,please. Get them loose."

Mutely, she bent to the restraint's buckles, worked them off as well she could with one hand, careful to keep the entrapped hand still. She barely had one of his arms free before she was caught by the blow to her cheek, as her fingers were spat out and she collided with the floor. She sprawled, only had time to inhale relief to see her hand intact, as she heard the frenzied grunts of frustration, then a bright cackle and muttering as Mr. Napier flung the straps free, and they fell away. Leering at her, he shot off the bed in one fluid motion, was on his feet in two seconds, palmed the scalpel in three.

She cowered at his feet, slid uselessly backwards, until she felt the unyielding wall collide with her spine.  
He rose above her, theteeth were bared in a glittering smile. His smirk grew wider than the gates of hell, the eyes glinting with dark promise of something hidious before it was over with. She wondered, idly, if he was going to cut her open, or just stab her to death. His tongue bled scarlet over the silver as he licked the blade with a suggestive eyebrow waggling. He saw her pale, sweating fear, and cackled.

"You're a pretty thing, you know that. I like...pretty things.Scars are pretty things. Bright things, that leave a trace of their existance, the one thing that draws the eye when you don't want to see. After all, what would I know about scars?" He gave a shrug of humorous irony as he languidly swirled a finger down his marred jaw.

She whimpered, cowered like an animal beneith him, scuttling back into the refuge of the shadows like a roach. Amused, he only cackled, tilted his head, consideringly."Now there's all sorts of scars, you know. Each one unique in its pain, each one so perversely honest, each one a memory that carries a reminder of the dark things that so many wish to forget...tell me something, What catches your eye the most, the sick act that cut up a human face,or the fact that you're transfixed, and you just ...can't turn away?"

His unmarred hands crept over the flesh of her face with ironic gentleness, and she gaped to see something almost human shimmering in those eyes before the mad glee broke through like a bloated corpse flung to the surface of the churning waters.

"I'm sorry!" The apology was little more than a panicked squeal as she writhed under his iron grip and ground out a pleading whimper when she felt the cold blade against the corner of her mouth.

"Maybe we could put a smile on that face, eh? A bright, happy, ear to ear smile that never goes away. A wonderful, delusional grin to let the world see those pearly whites. What do you say?" The knife danced over the corner of her mouth, plunged between her teeth, and slid back out again, leaving her with a mouth full of blood, her face intact. She slumped in relief, as he smirked.

"The truth? Truth and lies, only one truth, and so many lies around it all. Interesting paradox, but they say the road to hell is the distance in between.A road that I walk on quite proudly. After all...with a face like this..." he hissed, as he drew the blade over his cheek,"what would I know about hell?" 


	8. Perversion

"Well?" The ludicrious question hung in the heavy air between them, as her eyes fell to the glistening blade, the shimmering

trail of tears and spit and blood feeling hot and brutal against her quaking cheek. He sighed, irritably, rolled his eyes, broke her

glazed stupor with a not so gentle prompt of the scalple. Her eyes swung from the sharp edge digging into her flesh to his eyes,

held his gaze as her own faltered miserably into tears, frantically pleading for answers. He yanked the blade away, with a manic

little giggle, a mocking shuffle backwards. His dark eyes roved over her, his tongue lighting over the corner of his jagged mouth,

pondering.

He made a chastizing click of tongue and teeth, wagged a finger in the inches of air between them. She squealed as his smile

split into a maddening grin, the scars cracking hideously wide. Tilting his head to the side, he only sighed, shook his head.

"Now you see why seduction doesn't work when the object of your desire is _forced._ Tell me something, doctor. Are you getting

all hot and bothered, or are you so scared you're about to lose it? It's not so exciting to be the v_ictim."_ The last word was a mutilated

hiss as his eyes lingered consideringly at her trembling body, and then smirked as they swung back to the gurney.

"Maybe what we need, doctor, is a lesson in empathy, hmmm? Granted, you're a cute little thing, but your..._bedside_ manner

is sorely lacking. _Lay down."_

His voice had gone from manically high laughter to a scraping growl, as he snarled the last words. Her eyes and mouth flew open in

a silent scream as the full realization that her toy had become a monster. Her muscles had gone slack as rope in her terror, she could

only tense and tear up as his twisted flesh melted from snarl to vicious rage. Teeth and knife hung in the air between them, the silver

blade falling over her quaking flesh like a star, and breaking as she was suddenly hauled off the floor with a shriek and flung onto the

bed. He slammed her down on the gurney, and she lay there, stunned and sickened as he gleefully clapped his hands, smirked, choked off

the shrieks with the rubber gag shoved down her throat until she choked, bound her body and throat by the straps. She thrashed and shrieked

until her flesh was scraped raw and bleeding, and he did nothing more than stare at her anguish with detatched curiosity.

She slumped, panting and exhausted, flinched and cried when she felt his groping hand gently lace over her cheeks, never going lower

or higher, never violating, but tracing the shadows of his scars against her trembling lips. It felt like a caress, as she lay back and stared

up at him, helplessly. Snickering, he sat back, casually as if watching a movie, the silent menace radiating.

"As you said, doctor. It only takes a mere suggestion to bring somebody to their knees. It only takes a mere hint to break somebody...

and it only takes a few seconds with a piece of metal to destroy them. Curious to know what's going to happen to you?" She shook her

head, ground out a whimpering plea. "Hmmmm..." It was a sound of languid musing, almost a purr as he shook his head.

Softly, he sat back on his haunches, carefully arranging the gown so that it would conceal what it could. He ran gentle fingers through her

hair, swirled them at her ears, and halted when he felt her stiffen in revulsion.

"You know...seeing that naked, raw fear in your eyes brings back the memories of the night I got my scars. When you...when you tremble like that,

and squeal? You look just like _her,_ as she was being held down, as they were getting ready to cut her, as she was crying for mercy...sort of like you.

She was inocent, sort of like..._me._ If I had ran away, who knows? Maybe I'd be scar-free but broken by the death of the one person I thought loved

me enough to look beyond something so...unpretty." His finger abscently ran over one cheek, as he sighed, again, sadly.

"What the hell is it with you pretty girls, anyway?Hell, maybe _she _would have been better off if I had just let them carve her up like a piece of meat.

Maybe I'd be sparing some other poor sap some heartache if I cut your face up enough to _be hated._ I know, it's crazy, but when you think about it,

it makes sense in a perverse way, doesn't it? Now, here's the really sad thing, _doctor._ If I were the hansome, hot thing I used to be, you would probably

be enjoying this. If I were the hansome, hot thing I used to be, _she _would be enjoying this, now. There wouldn't be any knives needed to get anything

accomplished, I promise you.." He gave her a coy grin, waggled his eyebrows suggestively, with a leer. She squeaked. He gave her a mocking swat to the

hip, wagged a finger.

"Now, I knew that you were vocal, doctor, but there's no need for hysterics. You see, when I go into hysterics, I find myself given the happy darts to the

ass and sent to beddy-bye. When you go into hysterics now, I might just get irritated by the noise enough to stop it in the best way a pyschopath with a '

sharp object knows how. Still curious, doctor?"

Her eyes bulged, and her head whipped back and forth frantically. He nodded, smuggly. "You know what's so cute about all of this, doctor? You have no idea

exactly what the hell I'm going to do with you...to you. I may cut you open from neck to knees without any hesitation, I may saw your mouth open from ear to ear,

or...I may take what I want." His eyes lingered at her heaving skirt, as he leered. She screamed then, but was silenced by the sudden, sharp realization of the

scalpel shredding the thin blouse over her heaving torso.

"Decisions, decisions...don't worry your pretty little head about _that,_ sweetheart." He playfully slapped her bare knee. "I'm definitely going to take what I want...but I

already told you the mere sight of you sends me into dry heaves. Besides, when you've...played as much as you have, it'd be nothing but stupidity for me to

expose myself to whatever nasties you may have picked up along the way. It's not dark, and I'm not squinting." He scowled darkly at the glowering lights overhead.

"And, most of all, I'm not..._taking._ Sweetheart, this may be my last decently human act...but I'll make it worth your while, I promise..."

All she remembered was seeing the sadness that glowed down in tears from those searing dark eyes, the lingering hand on her check, almost tender in its perverseity, and the brief brush of scarred lips and mutilated flesh as he knelt down and stole a kiss, chaste and brief and forbidden. She shut her eyes in disgust, in

terror, and nearly choked in shock at the feel of metal against her throat.

"Open your eyes, you sadistic bitch. Open your eyes and let me _see!" _Her eyes flew open, flooded over and she sobbed, as he only shook his head, with a chuckle.

"It's still not dark, and I'm not squinting. And your bed side manner still...is lacking." She screamed in terror when she felt the gurney suddenly shoved violently against the wall, the world and the walls gliding away for a few agonizing moments, before the metal bars slammed into the door and the bed stopped abruptly.

Shivering, she stared in disbelief to see the door still swinging open, and the last trace of his shadow fleeing behind him as he bolted. With a grunt, she realized he had taken the scalpel.

A/N...next chapter deals with the evil doctor who tortured the Joker with the gag.


	9. Vengence, Part One

He couldn't help the mean little cackle of mirth that burbled up from somewhere inside, as he saw the

gurney tip over, the wheels flying upward, and the harsh pop of bone as the bed flipped, bashing the

wall, and taking the lady doctor with it. He didn't bother himself to flinch. as he watched her being

flung to the earth as if she was thrown, her panicked squeal, the loud crack of skull hitting concrete,

and the dull thud of the whole thing crashing. White sheets slowly ran scarlet. The pristine tiles of the

floor were bright red from the heap of metal and cloth. He didn't bother to trouble himself with the questions

of if she lived or not. He didn't give a damn. Grinning coldly, or at least as much as his mutilated cheeks would

allow, he waited patiently for the attack dogs, the white-coats, almost disappointed that they didn't come to drug

him to happy land. Aside from the disorientating tilt of the world when he woke, being sedated wasn't nearly

the deterrant they had wished it to be. Indeed, being pleasantly asleep was far more enjoyable than the endless

waiting of the gurney and the straps...and the helplessness.

He scowled at the draft that was creeping up his spine, palmed the back of his cold neck and realised with a flush

that he would have been almost disrobed if they had let him stand. Indeed, he was getting damn sick of the skimpy

outfit. He wanted his pants back, at least. Running a hand through the greased curls, he stared at the white walls in

frustration, but smiled when he saw the large white lab coat the bitch had discarded somewhere between the scuffle of

her failed ..domination attempt, and his escape. He yanked it over his back, scowled at the sleeves that came to rest

high on his forearms. He shook his head, it wasn't a damn fashion show. Palming the scalple, with a neat little swirl of the blade

dancing from wrist to wrist, he rose, and cautiously ventured towards the formidable metal door, peered through the glass.

He saw nothing but the dark vancant hallway, the long corridors spiraling back unseen into hallways he hadn't had the

privledge of venturing into...yet. He couldn't help the little bright giggle when he saw the inviting, empty hallway.

Silently, he slid out, locked the door as best he could, peered over his shoulder to make sure that the aftermath of his

episode wasn't readily visable. It wasn't.

He raised an eyebrow at the lab coat, carefully cleaned the blade, grinned at the stain as he tucked it away.

His bare feet sounded hollow and thundering from their echo against the shining tile. Warily, he moved forward,

sidling behind each coridor and eyeing the path before he lurched forward. He was unnoticed, as there were

hardly any people on his ward, save for the occasional orderly shuffling past with a cart or an empty gurney.

It was easy to evade being detected, and it was a rather leisurely stroll to his destination. His cheeks

fragmented into a dark, twisted scowl as he stared at the obnoxiously shining gold nameplate that was

emblazoned with the name of the doctor. His fingers curled in aching futility as they felt the deep, cracked

flesh around the corners of his mouth. It felt like the skin of a corpse.

Grimacing, he fiddled with the brass latch of the door, and then grinned when it swung open in perverse welcome.

Without any further ado, he casually strolled in

Good Doctor Waverly had his glasses perched on his nose as his eyes roved over the dark book of Nazi pyschology,

raising an eyebrow in curiosity, as he turned a page, studied the photos of hollow-eyed suffering with indifferent fascination.

Cruelty, he knew, produced results, far better than wasting an inornate amount of time on society's ingrates. They

were little more than flesh and bone by the time they arrived here...little more than neat mechanisms of a machine like

system where the minds and parts were altered and reshaped until they...fit.

Doctor Waverly had a placid, paternal face, as kind as a Sunday morning preacher, and hardly looked more imposing than

any other silver-haired gentlemen. He wore his coats pressed, never failed to wear shiny shoes, and never lost the ability to

decieve people by masking how little regard he had for those in his 'care.'

So, he was more than suprised when he heard the cackle, and the lights of his office suddenly snapped off with a click.

Stiffening, he yelped when the chair beneith him lurched upward by an unseen hand and the world tilted and he was dumped onto the floor.

There was no sound except the eerie laughter, breaking like glass into the dark.

"What is the meaning of this? Who's there?!" The old man barked out, spluttering for an answer as he tried to haul his considerable bulk

from the floor.

"Evening, doctor." The voice was a languid drawl, as a small beam of light flared over the sliced face and the cracked flesh. The edges of darkness

were clinging to the scars that adorned the mouth, making the mutilation even more hideous, sliced by white and shadows...

"You!" The doctor bellowed, stabbed a finger inches away from the face floating over him. "When the orderlies get here, I will make sure you're so

drugged that you won't even be able to piss without an escort, you disgusting cretan!"

The insult only resulted in a coy snicker. "Promise?"

It was the slice of light gliding over face and blade, the rush of movement, and the dull thud as the thing came from the dark and siddled up to his side.

The old man's riled threats were soon silenced most effectively by the glint of silver and the sudden, sharp pain of the scalpel digging into his throat.

The blade sawed at the thick throat until rivlets of blood were dripping off his captor's fingers.

"Why so serious?" The mocking question was puncuated by an almost tender pat of a long hand over Waverly's sweating bangs. The doctor

trembled, stared blindly up at the unrevealing shaft of light, as the monster only coiled back, and stood over him. The doctor was still sprawled at his feet

as the blade danced before his eyes, the glint of silver and teeth all the more hideous from the shadows around him.

The merry chuckle abruptly turned brutal and chilled as that scarred mouth hissed into his ear, "Get up." Flummoxed, Waverly grunted as he hauled his

heavy body from the floor, attempted to distainfully straighten the mussed silk tie. The action was halted by a cackle and a neat slice as the tie and his palm

were severed. Waverly cried out at the hot, wet agony of his split open palm, drew the bleeding limb to his side, and started to cry.

He only heard the disgusted sigh, the bright arch of blade as it flew to his mouth and he was given the barked command, "Shut up. Shut up before I slice that

fat neck open." And in cruel emphasis, he felt the skin being split open.

"Move, doctor." Waverly slid his shaking legs forward, the blade at his back jabbing here and there, drawing fresh cuts and ruining the expensive suit.

"Are you going to kill me?" The question was whimpered, as Jack paused to stare at him, tilting his head, consideringly, with a leer.

"No, no. I won't kill you. That's too predictable and clique for my tastes. I mean..come on...I just _kill _you? What's the fun in _that?"_

He shrugged casually, the gleeful smirk returning as the old man arched an eyebrow at him, shuddered at the touch on his shoulder.

"Then what are you going to do to me?"

Jack only cackled, rocked back on his heels, mockingly, and sneered, as he lurched closer. "That's for me to know..." he purred, teasingly

poking the doctor with the scalpel.

"And you to shut the hell up about." He snarled, slammed the scalpel into the soft cheek at his knuckles, and chuckled as he carved out the

flesh with a smirk at the shriek of blinding pain, the whimpering disbelief, the bone deep shudder as the doctor collapsed, and slithered to the floor

with a pool of blood.


End file.
